


I Would Trade This World For A Stroke Of Your Brush

by Artpressing



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Dallon, Beaches, I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Write Sex, Lap Sex, M/M, Minor Injuries, Moving In Together, Paint Kink, Parkour, Photography, Picnics, Pop-Tarts, Shotgun Kisses, Spooning, Stargazing, Surprise Ending, Tissue Warning, Trespassing, Urban Exploration, Urban Explorer Brendon, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, abandoned places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artpressing/pseuds/Artpressing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon can't stay in a state longer than a couple months. The buildings, the faces become boring, everything turns grey after a while.<br/>Utah is supposed to be the same, then he meets the artist, Dallon Weekes.</p><p>AKA: The Urbex AU nobody asked for</p><p>8Tracks Mix with background story: http://8tracks.com/artpressing/i-would-trade-this-world-for-a-stroke-of-your-brush</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Earth Without Art Is Just 'Eh'

 

Urban Exploration is like owning a city without being in control of it. It’s like being the part of the city, the brain of it, the legs that carry the time forward. Watching everything get bigger and better, but choosing to ignoring it, turning to rust and finding beauty there. That’s how Brendon would describe it.

But in reality it’s mostly just running and cursing. 

 

Because okay, Brendon expected his phone to die after taking a couple shitty photos, because visiting the old factory was an  impromptu idea, he could walk past the building when he saw it, and there were no gates or fences, and climbing through one of the windows wasn’t exactly hard either. 

What he didn’t expect was to run into a really angry looking guard in a (strangely new-looking) corridor. 

Turns out one of the wings was still in use, while the rest of the factory was abandoned and Brendon happened to find that wing by accident.

 

He really shouldn’t go into buildings without preparing.

 

And now he is running. 

He’s thinking about how he should’ve charged his phone that morning or brought his camera with himself to work. He only took ten photos in there and most of them requires a lot of editing and they aren’t that interesting either. Well, the followers of his blog might not be thrilled. 

Brendon takes a mental note to come back with actual equipment later as he jumps out the window. His feet slips on the wet grass and he lands on his butt. 

Brendon thinks this definitely didn’t go according to his plan, then he realizes he didn’t have a plan in the first place, so he just stands up, acknowledges his now ruined jeans and walks away with a shrug.  

 

He comes back the next day at night and stays until the sun comes up. He finds a ladder to the rooftop around four AM, the old, rusty metal cuts his hand, but he climbs up anyway. 

He pulls a beer out of his backpack and sits at the edge of the roof, his legs dangling. The night is dotted with white lights, flickering neons and small lives, the city is breathing by itself, moving like a wave, dragging down the bored youth, drowning them in parties and glitter. Then he watches the scenery turn into something different, something grey, and tired, and apathetic. He imagines men and women waking up early, putting on their suits, their dress, their uniform and starting to work, for their money, for their boring life. 

The city is a hive.

But Brendon isn’t part of it. And he wouldn’t change this world of rust and adrenaline to anything, he doesn’t want to live a life without exploring -it’s part of him-

He takes a picture of the early sunlight shining through the green glass bottle. 

It becomes the header image of his blog the next week and everyone loves it. 

He doesn’t. It’s a great picture, sure, but after a while it makes him feel as empty as the bottle itself, the city became as boring as the people in it, it’s not bright and exciting anymore, no, it’s just hollow. 

He needs a change.

He moves to Salt Lake City in May.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so  [ squatting ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squatting) is either the best or the worst thing he ever tried. 

Sleeping in abandoned building is even more terrible than what he expected, but it makes him feel like a struggling, starving artist, and that’s really cool, his notebook is filled with new lyrics and he feels as creative as ever. And Thompson Springs is definitely worth exploring, ghost towns are always worth it. 

Sure, there are a few really weird people living there, but they rarely come out and never bother the explorers. 

So naturally when Brendon walks into an old café, he doesn’t expect to find a man in the corner, drawing, his feet on the table, a wooden drawing pad in his lap. He is actually kinda cute and if Brendon ignores the red pastel crayon on his cheeks he doesn’t look like a murderer at all. He squints at his paper, then looks out the huge dirty window. He doesn’t notice the younger man, so Brendon just shrugs, sits down in front of him and pulls out a Pop Tart from his bag and starts eating it, wondering if the strange artist will notice him. After a couple seconds the man glances at the window again and catches a glimpse of Brendon’s reflection. He lays his drawing on the dirty table, puts his feet on the ground and raises a questioning eyebrow at the eating boy in front of him.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” 

Brendon just smiles in return, waves, his mouth still full. 

“Do you- Do you live here? I mean in this town. I know I shouldn’t be here, but you know-” Brendon finally shallows and cuts him off. 

“No, not really. I mean technically I’ve been living here for three days, but I guess that doesn’t count either. I understand you, by the way, places likes this are...inspiring.” He flashes a perfect, white grin. The stranger huffs and raises his other eyebrow. Brendon is not sure if he’s surprised, amused, or simply interested.

“Are you homeless? You don’t look like you are.”

And really, at this point Brendon wants to laugh, but he can’t, it’s just not funny anymore.

“Nah, I have an apartment in Salt Lake City, I’m doing urbex and I wanted to try  [ squatting ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squatting) , but I gave up at the first night, I’ve been sleeping in my car since. I’ve been eating cold Pop Tarts, granola bars and cereal for days, I”m out of clean underwear, I want a shower and the whole thing sucks.”

“Then why are you still here?” 

A faint smile is tugging at his lips, and looks really close to losing it and laughing at Brendon. Pastel boy is playing a dangerous game and he doesn’t even know it.

“I have no fucking idea, dude. I-” The stranger chuckles, but Brendon continues anyway “I...write. Lyrics. Songs. I wanted to be a musician, but it never worked out. It’s easier to write, to think in the middle of nowhere” He is drumming with his fingers on his knee. They awkwardly stare at eachother for a while, and okay, maybe Brendon gets lost in Pastel boy’s blue-gray eyes. They remind him of the dirty city sky in the afternoon. He decides he likes them. 

“Want a Pop Tart?”

“Sure.” Brendon pulls out a half-empty box of blueberry Pop Tarts and hands it to the other man.

“So, uh, can I see what you are drawing?”

“It depends” The stranger says as he bites into the pastry. Brendon looks at him questioningly, they chew for a couple seconds before he gets an answer.

“It depends on if I can see your lyrics.” 

And okay, that’s not what Brendon expected, but he fishes out his notebook and slides it to Pastel boy, who in exchange hands him a slightly heavy folder probably full of drawings.

Most of them are sketches of streets, buildings or bridges, but there are portraits, unfinished comic strips, colorful still lives and studies of hands and noses and ears. The colors are amazing, and Brendon is fascinated. It’s like getting lost in a swirls of rainbows and rainy mornings and decaying buildings.  It’s pretty and grotesque and new and exciting. 

“Wow.” Pastel boy says from the other side of the table. Brendon smirks and mutters a “Same” but when he looks up the man is not looking at his lyrics, no, he is staring at him and Brendon has to look away and his eyes find the pastel drawing on the table and it’s a montage of streets in Thompson Springs and it’s unfinished, and the colors make no sense and the whole thing looks like someone spilled paint and coffee over it, but it’s beautiful. It’s simply beautiful.  When he looks up again he feels his cheeks heat up, it’s embarrassing and weird, because they met in the middle of nowhere, but he wants to know more about Pastel boy.  He tries to play it cool and tries to make the whole thing a bit more normal by introducing himself.

“I’m Brendon. Brendon Urie.” He jumps to his feet so fast he knocks over the table. Pastel boy stands up, (That’s when Brendon notices how tall he is) and shakes his bandaged hand. It hurts, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m Dallon Weekes” 

“Cool, nice to meet you, but I guess we are already over that. So. Wanna take this conversation to a café that’s actually open?” 

Dallon furrows his eyebrows and Brendon can see he’s thinking. If he says no Brendon is going to die right where he is standing.

“Sure. How about next Tuesday at nine at the Starbucks near Sugar House? You mentioned you live in Salt Lake City I was thinking if-”

“Cool, yes, let’s do it.” 

And that’s when Brendon realizes he is still gripping and shaking Dallon’s hand it’s getting awkward. Maybe he should just go home and sleep, all those hours spent awake are not doing good for him.

He doesn’t let go for a while, just stares at their hands. 

Dallon starts laughing when Brendon blushes, and okay, now it really is awkward.  

“You are a really interesting person Brendon. I hope to see you again.” Pastel boy says as he starts packing his things. Brendon can’t help but beam at him. 

Dallon waves at him as he exist and watches the tall man in the dark clothes disappear at the end of the street.

Well...Tuesday is going to be something different. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Dallon went to Thompson Springs he didn’t expect to be asked out by a random and apparently really hot stranger. 

It was weirder than anything his mind ever conjured up, so when Brendon doesn’t show up on Tuesday he is not surprised.

He’s been waiting for him in Starbucks for thirty minutes now and Brendon is nowhere to be found, and Dallon is not sure how he feels about it. Because really, what did he expect from a man who met him in an abandoned town and is way out of his league? Seriously, Brendon looks like a blessing on two legs.

So he just sits there, sketching something on the napkin in front of him and thinks about ordering a coffee for himself when someone gently touches his shoulder. When he turns he finds himself face-to-face with chocolate brown eyes and a wide, warm smile. 

Brendon’s still has the bandage on his hand, and now there is a fresh red scar on his left cheek and a disgusting white cast on his wrist. 

“Did I mention I also free-run?” 

And Dallon can't  help but laugh, because he doesn’t even know Brendon, but he is pretty sure Urie means ‘dork’ in at least ten foreign languages. 

Brendon orders two lattes for himself and before Dallon could ask, he explains that he spent most of the night at the hospital, waiting for a doctor who takes care of his broken wrist, and he was late because he overslept. The amount of sugar he puts in the cups should be enough to cause diabetes, but Brendon still says his coffee is bitter.

“Or maybe you're just too sweet for it”

Dallon says while sipping his own cappuccino. 

Brendon doesn't blush, just grins at Dallon who takes that as a compliment.

And really, Brendon is just as strange, talkative and forward as the first time they met, he talks for both of them and he is so happy about discussing as unimportant things as the weather like he haven't talked to anyone in ten years. 

They joke around for a while, Brendon shows his best Gollum impression and Dallon shows off his most inappropriate jokes, then pretends he didn't say anything and they didn't laugh. It's fun, until the barista kindly asks them to leave, and when Dallon glances at his watch he sees it's already half past two. 

“I was thinking about buying some pencils and crayons and I'm pretty much out of the big canvas, and maybe if you come with me I can buy you lunch”

Brendon's eyes are shining brighter than the sun.

“Or maybe you could buy some sharpies instead and decorate this ugly ass cast.” He suggests.

 

They end up in a small restaurant a couple hours later, waiting for their food. 

The colorful sharpies are scattered on the table and Dallon is concentrating as he draws flowers on the cast that match the tattoos on Brendon’s left arm.  

Brendon is on the point where he doesn’t know what’s prettier: The flowers or the man creating them. He should probably snap out of it, he’s not even sure if Dallon thinks this is actually a date. Well, he probably does, since they’ve been flirting for the past couple hours, but still, Brendon shouldn’t be allowed to stare at him with puppy eyes or imagine him naked. 

Not like Brendon cares about what he’s not allowed to do…

Dallon draws a last line and lightly touches Brendon’s arm above the cast. His fingers are cold and soft and it sends a shiver down Brendon’s spine. He licks his lips unintentionally, and he is aware of the blue eyes following his every movement, and after a long second that feels like hours he looks up and smirks. The waitress breaks the the tension between them. 

They eat in silence for a while, then Brendon pipes up.

 “One of the things I miss from Chicago is the pizza. It’s not not just a myth, the dough it totally better there, trust me”

“So you are from Chicago then?”

Dallon immediately regrets the question when the younger man’s smile fades for the first time that day. 

“Last week when you asked me if I was homeless… I am, in a sense.” He laughs bitterly. “I mean I have an apartment, I pay for the rent and everything. But nothing feels like home. I lived in twelve different states in the past three years, and I just get bored, there is no place that makes me want to stay.” And okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said that, because Pastel boy actually looks sad and maybe there is pity in his eyes too and Brendon wants to fix it, even if he barely knows the man, and he shouldn’t give him false hope. 

“But I guess I’ll stick around for a little longer this time” He says and even fakes a smile, and he expects Dallon to say something funny or reassuring, but he doesn’t expect a kiss. 

And okay, this is way better than anything he could’ve said. And Dallon tastes like strong coffee, maple sirup and well… pepperoni, but he doesn’t care and kisses back right before the older man pulls away. 

When they part, and they are both blushing, their eyes shining, lips swollen. Someone clears his throat behind them, but they can’t hear it, because nothing exists in that moment. 

Dallon lazily blinks at Brendon and buries his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never done this, don’t think I run around, kissing strangers all the time.” 

Brendon finds the whole situation comical and strange at the same time. It’s least as amazing as Dallon himself. 

“Dude” He laughs “Dude, you don’t sound like you are sorry.”

“Okay, I take that part back” 

They smirk silently at each other, the air still feel heavy and their skin still craves the touch. 

“Do you want to see my atelier tomorrow? We could continue whatever this was.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Meet me here at eleven, then.” He waves over the waiter, but he doesn’t look away for a second. He reaches for Brendon’s hand again and grabs one of the sharpies and scribbles his phone number on the cast. 

“A final touch before I leave.” 

And that’s the moment when Brendon decides, that maybe he doesn’t have to lie about sticking around.

 


	2. Three Weekes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel sorry for anyone who reads the chapter titles.

The atelier is a very small building Dallon rents near the suburbs. It’s nothing special from the outside, but as soon as they go in Brendon’s jaw drops, the place looks like something out of a Disney movie. 

He finds himself in a lived-in room with large windows, natural light illuminating the whole space.  The antique white walls are lined with polished birch shelves with various paint, chalks, pencils and brushes on them in a tidy mess, the kind of mess that makes no sense to anyone else but you. 

Besides a couple wooden chairs the only furniture in the room is a tiny, peach colored, old couch in front of an easel. It has a white shirt, a can of Doctor Pepper and a cup of tea on it, and when Brendon looks at the painting on the easel, he finds an unfinished still life. A still life. With Doctor Pepper. It’s ridiculous. Brendon thinks it’s awesome.

“It looked boring” Dallon breaks the silence.

“Without the can, I mean. The painting needed some color” 

Brendon doesn't answer, just nods and looks around again. 

He examines the pastel colored window frames, the ugly, yellow flowerpots in the corner with half-dead plants in them, the still life, the empty canvas by the wall waiting to be used, the dried paint on the floorboards and, unbelievably high shelves and Dallon sheepishly smiling in the corner, and decides that the atelier is -by his standards- disgustingly adorable. 

“This is really cool.” Is all he can say, because when he looks at Dallon he starts blushing and has to duck his head.

 

And okay, he has to admit that the room is not the disgustingly adorable thing around. 

"Thanks." 

The silence is awkward and tense, but Brendon doesn't know what to say, tries to avoid eye contact and just stares at the flowers, then at Dallon, then he can't take his eyes off the artist's mouth, because he starts talking.

"Uh, sorry about the orchids, I know they are in a bad shape. I've accidentally watered them with paint water, I guess they didn't like it"

Brendon nervously licks his own lips and doesn't notice how the taller man stops breathing for a second. 

"So, what did you say about continuing what we were doing yesterday?"

Dallon just smiles at him and moves closer.

 

* * *

 

 

Three weeks, a hundred sweet conversations and a few makeout sessions later Brendon decides he is fucked.  

He had been neglecting his blog, his hobby, his whole life, because of Dallon fucking Weekes had to be so nice, and handsome and cute. He thinks he is going crazy, he's sure that falling in love with someone as soon as they wobble into an abandoned building (on his long, amazing legs) is the most fucked up thing ever, but he is still into it. 

So when Dallon asks him out for dinner it takes him two hours to finally say no, because he would like to, but he can't.

He can't act like a puppy, he is supposed to explore Utah, not a local painters mouth, for fucks sake. 

So that's what he does. He throws his equipment on the backseat of his car, and goes to find a private scrapyard in Murray after making sure he has everything he needs.

It takes Brendon more than half an hour to actually get in. After avoiding the dogs and constantly turning his flashlight on and off so he can get in unnoticed, he manages to approach the building. 

Judging by the photos the place looked fun, but in reality, it isn't. 

He nearly fell into a well, got eaten by dogs and scraped his knee and the only thing he finds is a bunch of old cars, and he is very disappointed, because even if the cars are cool, but they aren't worth the trouble. 

He takes a couple photos, not bothering with the manual settings too much when he hears growling. Loud, angry growling, coming from behind his back. Sounds like the dogs saw the flash and found Brendon again and they were ready to protect the place that belonged to them. 

Brendon doesn't run at first, afraid to make any sudden moves, so he slowly backs away, before turning around and sprinting. Unfortunately for him the huge dogs are faster than he thought, and one of them catches his leg, just when he's about to climb over the fence. Ignoring the sharp pain in his calf he kicks himself up and  jumps over, rolling on his back when he lands, holding his camera close to his chest so he doesn't damage it. 

He breathes heavily, trying to gather his thoughts. At first he checks his equipment, noting that he dropped his flashlight, then uses his phone as a light source to examine the bite.

There is dirt and mud everywhere and it hurts at least as much as his broken wrist did. He frowns, because it looks half as bad as it feels, and he doesn't want to stand on it at all, but when the barking comes back and he sees headlights in the distance changes his mind, being aware of the fact that the loud dogs might have alerted someone. 

He silently curses himself for parking half a mile away, and takes his time reaching his car, and when he does he immediately texts Dallon, apologizeing for canceling their date, promising he is going to pop in at some point the next day.

He decides that the scrapyard is worth a story, because nearly getting torn appart was pretty damn exciting, so he starts writing the post on his phone in the hospital while waiting for a doctor, edits the photos as soon as he gets home and uploads them with picture of his bandaged leg. He only glances up at the clock once the post is up, and nearly falls asleep just by looking at the time. It's five in the morning, and he haven't slept at all. At this point he is not sure if it's even worth it, so he starts reading Urbex blogs instead. 

He starts with  _ Mad as a Hatter _ , Ryan's blog, and he doesn't even have time to scroll down before he has to burry his face in his hands.

_ What the actual fuck. _

 

* * *

  
  


Running is part of Brendon’s life. It’s something he is familiar with, something trivial, it’s his first reaction if things go wrong, it’s just how his brain works.

So obviously when he sees the post on Ryan’s blog about their trip to Utah he freaks out and considers moving to another state right in that moment.  

He reads it anyway, and the last sentence makes his stomach flip, and decides that maybe creeping on his friends the past three years wasn’t the best idea he ever had. 

 

The thing is, Ryan, Jon, and Spencer were his friends, best friends even, and after he ran away he couldn’t let go of them that easily. And maybe he decided to follow their Urbex blogs, leaving comments, chatting, but never revealing himself. But now Ryan invited him to join them next week, and Brendon can’t really decide how he is supposed to deal with that.

Technically he didn't invite Brendon, he doesn't know it's Brendon, he thinks they are going to spend quality time with an urban explorer who currently lives in Utah. 

Brendon should politely decline and hide in house for a week, because he is not capable of anything else. 

 

The running started when his parents threw him out after he graduated. Spencer and Ryan were his high school friends, and they were willing to help him out, because he couldn’t afford college or an apartment of his own, so they gave him a place to stay and Spencer even got him a job at a smoothie hut. Brendon started feeling uncomfortable when Ryan didn’t go to the university he wanted to, saying he was taking a gap year and is going to start studying after Brendon got back on his feet. But he never started the university, and Brendon knew it was his fault.

 

They met Jon in October in an abandoned building while exploring. 

He was a photography student who grew up in Chicago and moved to Nevada, and the first time they saw him Ryan’s first thought was to point out the fact that Jon is wearing flip-flops for urbex, and how that’s the stupidest thing he has ever seen. 

Brendon remembers the argument between the two about and how Spencer tried to hide his laughter when he scolded Ryan for calling a stranger’s flip-flops ‘uncool’. 

And that’s how they became friends with Jon Walker, who also did anything for Brendon just to help him out, including things like coming over at three in the middle of the night with ice cream and pot, because Brendon said he feels like shit, or canceling the date with his girlfriend, Cassie, when he wanted to propose. 

Brendon was twenty one when he ran away, and he did it because all he owned was a minivan, a cheap camera and a shitty apartment and he felt like a fucking  _ leech _ .

All he left was a note, his phone and a couple old photos, he became unreachable. 

 

The only thing he didn’t gave up on was urban exploring, he made a new blog and filled it with photos and stories, and it went well, mostly because he moved from city to city, he had always something new to show.

When he had enough of a place, or started feeling too attached he ran. 

And well...Maybe he should’ve ran after he met Dallon Weekes, but he couldn’t. Salt Lake City was his new cage, the place that couldn’t let him go, no matter how hard he tried to get away. 

He is hoping he’ll get bored eventually, or Dallon would say or do something really disappointing, so saying goodbye is going to be easier. 

Staying is not an option, because he doesn’t know how to settle, how to enjoy something for more than just a couple months.

Leaving is going to be hard, yes, but he is used to it.  

But he shouldn’t be thinking about that yet, he should call Dallon and spend some time with him in the atelier, maybe get laid, or at least cuddle on the small, ugly couch and forget about the whole thing.

Or maybe he could bring some kick-ass alcoholic drink, get a bit drunk, then forget about the whole thing.

That sounds like a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the thing is, I'm not home.  
> And I wanted to upload this on Sunday, but Spencer happened, and yeah.  
> This chapter was supposed to be much longer and maybe had some dirty sex at end.  
> Maybe.  
> (Actually, 90% of that is already written, so the next chapter won't take that long.)  
> Sorry you guys had to wait this long for a short chapter.


	3. Familiar Faces and Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon has problems.  
> Angst is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the sex is pretty much unreadable, I would completely skip that part.  
> And yes, this chapter is longer than the first two together.

“What the hell are you doing, Bren?”

Brendon gracefully throws his shirt at Dallon and lies down on the couch, stretches out. 

“I was wondering if you want to draw me like one of your french girls.” 

He bought a big bottle of some weird and too sweet chocolate liqueur with himself and after they drank it and became pleasantly and relaxingly drunk, Dallon tried to teach him how to paint. His broken wrist protested, so Brendon gave up after ten minutes, and has been watching the artist from the couch in awe since. He has childish fascination on his face.

But Dallon is also watching him, and when their eyes lock, Brendon can do nothing, but stare. Not seductively, nor kindly, he doesn’t flutter his long eyelashes, either. No, he just stares blankly, his mouth hanging open, and he looks like a fucking idiot.  

“Come here” The painter says out of the blue. Well, turns out they are anything but out of the blue, because as soon Brendon gets close enough Dallon runs a long, paint covered finger down his bare torso, leaving a dark, navy blue line and Brendon is sure he is going to melt, and he honestly wants to touch the other man literally everywhere, but he is puzzled, and okay, he definitely drank most of the chocolate liqueur and maybe he can’t handle alcohol that well, and everything is a mess, then Dallon grabs him by his hips and roughly turns him around, then stands up and Brendon can feel the other man tower over him and that's when he stops breathing.

“I’m going to paint a sunset on your back, the same sunset you have as the headline image on your, blog, what do you say?” 

Brendon answers with a small, uncertain nod, because the huge hands are resting just above his pants and he is afraid he might ruin his chance if he opens his mouth. 

And when sticky, thick paint touches his skin again, the palm on his spine is hot and gratifying. He can feel the patterns, the way the colors blend into each other, he imagines yellows and reds and purples dancing just right under his shoulderblades and he feels like he became a painting himself. 

He fidgets with his hands, he can’t stop them, it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on the quick fingers and soft palms on his back, it hurts to stand on his wounded leg and he has to shift his weight, and the whole situation is getting on his nerves. And affecting him in lower area. He can’t believe he is getting turned on by paint. Then his feet start to move as well and he is about to turn around and push Dallon against the wall when cold lips touch the base of his neck. 

“It’s done.” the voice behind him whispers. “Can you stay still for a minute? I’m just going to take your camera an-” 

Before he could finish Brendon is already pressed up against him, holding him by his shirt, and is eager to force his tongue into Dallon’s mouth. 

“No, for fucks sake. You’ve been touching my back for fucking hours, now it’s time for you to touch something else.” 

The taller man eyes him for a couple seconds, then a genuine smile appears on his face when he notices Brendon’s erection. 

“And if this ends up to be just making out again, I’m going to lie down and roll around and paint the fucking floor for you.”

And Dallon laughs, because Brendon is like a masterpiece on two legs, but he still manages to act like a toddler sometimes.

“I am serious.”

“Okay, okay, just...Let me take a picture of it before I do anything to you. And if you don’t stop pouting, we are going to wait ‘till it dries.” 

Brendon passes him his camera with a sigh and turns around to show off the artwork on his backside. 

“Just set it on auto, it’s not very professional, but I don’t have time for anything else” He hisses. When he hears the click he turns around and faces Dallon with a lopsided grin, hoping to finally get what what he was waiting for. But the artist just shakes his head.

“Take your pants off, I want one where I can see your ass.” 

Brendon obeys and pulls down his jeans and boxers with a growl and throws them in the corner angrily, then he poses, trying to look as relaxed as he can. 

_ Click _

Brendon turns his head to glare at Dallon. His eyes are darker.

_ Click _

Brendon is facing the camera now, determined to snatch it from the other man.

_ Click  _

Brendon’s palm is covering the lens. His other hand is in Dallon’s dark, messy hair, pulling him in for a rough, heated kiss.

“Don’t. Drop that camera. It cost me my soul.” He gently takes it from the tall man and puts it on the shelf where Dallon keeps his clean brushes, trying not to express his disapproval too loudly when he notices it’s covered in orange paint. 

He is more clumsy, and much less attentive when he unbuttons Dallon’s pants.

The older man is sucking at Brendon's collarbone, in hope to paint it purple, and leave another gorgeous color on him. And he makes sure to cup the shorter boy’s butt in his hand, leaving a perfect yellow hand print before the paint dries. 

“Yellow looks good on you. It matches your eyes.”

Brendon responds with a pleasure filled growl and digs his nails into Dallon’s back, pulling him as close as physically possible. Their lips meet again, tongues dancing in chocolate flavored breath. 

Brendon bites him when Dallon pulls away, but he falls to his knees and leaves a trail of kisses on the explorer’s naked body, kisses that taste like salt, and acrylic paint and  _ Brendon  _ and it’s messy, yes, but it’s still perfect. 

Dallon runs his fingers up Brendon’s inner thigh, then reaches over, puts a finger on the younger’s tailbone, just above his entrance and looks up questioningly. Brendon tilts his head and frowns. 

“No, I don’t want paint in my ass, if that’s what you are thinking.” His voice sounds weaker, needier, but it still bears some pride.

“I- I wanted to ask if you got any lube, or...”

“I do, but you are not going to touch me with  _ that _ hand.” With that he turns around, making sure to sway his hips while walking. Dallon can’t take his eyes off him. 

Then Brendon digs a condom out of his backpack, and throws it to the artist who dutifully puts it on after completely getting rid of his pants. Brendon finds the lube and pours it on his own hand before sliding two fingers into himself without a second thought. He glares at his partner the whole time, addresses his silent, pleased moans to him, but doesn’t move closer. 

“F-fuck Brendon, You are so hot”

Dallon subconsciously touches himself and he is damn sure he could finish without even touching Brendon again. His voice is enough. Or maybe not, because when Brendon let’s out a louder groan he was obviously trying to hold back, he can’t take it anymore. He stands up, and tugs the smaller man towards the tiny, uncomfortable couch in the middle of the room. Brendon takes advantage of the situation, pushes down Dallon, and sits in his lap with a smirk. He wiggles his hips a bit before placing his entrance above Dallons cock, and he slowly sinks down, biting his lips, trying to stay quiet. He steadies himself by putting both hands on the artist’s chest and wrapping his legs around his hips. 

“Hi” He breaths, it’s barely audible, yet it makes Dallon’s heart skip a beat. He can’t answer for a while, because Brendon is enchantingly beautiful and as a painter Dallon has to admire him. His porcelain skin, the sweet, chocolate brown eyes filled with need, the muscular chest and the visible v-line, and finally his full, pink lips that ache for a kiss. 

They starts moving, when Brendon clears his throat and leans forward.

Eventually they find a rhythm, and the faster they go the more vocal Brendon gets, and after a while Dallon would laugh at him if it wouldn’t be so fucking hot. 

Brendon resists the urge to touch his own dick, because of the insane amount of paint and his broken wrist, and mostly because he doesn’t want to let go of the painter, but he is relieved when a hand wraps around his cock, moving steadily, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

He feels the tension build up inside him, he hears his own voice like an echo. When he speaks it's loud, but feels distant.

“Dallon, shit, shit, I think I’m-” 

Dallon silences him with a kiss, and doesn’t pull away until Brendon comes all over his hand. He doesn't mind, white looks gorgeous on their trembling, paint covered bodies. 

The smaller man is pressed up against his chest, gasping for air, searching for words. 

When he silently slides off he nearly sends Dallon over the edge, and he just silently smirks before kneeling down between the taller man’s legs. 

“Uhm. B, you don't have to if-ah. Okay, yes, right there”

Dallon honestly has no idea what he wants to achieve with that sentence, but fortunately Brendon cuts him off by pulling off the condom and throwing it across the room, then experimentally licking the head of his cock. 

“That condom is flavored. It tastes like artificial strawberries, it's really gross.” He says with a shrug, then places a small kiss just under the base of Dallon's dick then gently sucks on the skin. He slowly licks his way up to the top again, finally taking the head in mouth. After a couple steady bobs he starts using his hands, and the two rhythms don’t match, and Dallon barely has time to warn Brendon before he comes. 

Brendon swallows it all and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like nothing happened.

“Wow” The artist says, because he can’t come up with anything that makes more sense, or describes what he’s feeling right now. 

“Wow indeed” Brendon agrees with a bright smile, and curls up next to Dallon on the small couch. He closes his eyes for a second, taking in the warmth of the other man and the lingering smell of sex in the air. Then he remembers something and suddenly jumps up with a shriek.

“Holy shit, I ruined your couch.”

“No, come back, acrylic paint is water based, we can get it out later.” 

The explorer huffs and takes a seat again, putting his head on the other man’s chest. 

“If you worry about my couch so much we can do it without the paint next time.”

“Hell no! I just discovered I have some weird paint kink, I’m not going to give up on it just yet!”

They laugh together for a bit, and when the silence comes it not awkward, it’s just a time when they can pay attention to each other, talk without words. It feels right, for Dallon, at least. He wonders if Brendon feels the same way. He wonders if the next question is going to change his mind or scare him. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, just to chase away the negative thoughts. He’s stupid. He just has to man up and ask.

“Brendon?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t open his eyes, just snuggles closer.

“Are we..Are we dating? I mean, do you want this to be serious? Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Brendon suddenly goes stiff and the world is completely mute for a second. 

“No” Comes the answer, and Dallon is sure he hears his own heart shatter into a million pieces. 

“No” Brendon says again, and he pushes himself away, and gathers his clothes from the floor.

They don’t say anything while Brendon dresses up, and this time the muteness is something else, something that hurts more than it should. Dallon doesn’t look at the other man, he closes his eyes and tries not to think, counts to ten and tries to remember the name of at least fifteen renaissance painters, or the title of the most famous Pollock painting, so he doesn’t have to face what is about to happen. He asked something stupid, and now he has to pay for it, now Brendon is going to walk out the atelier's door and never come back. He is going to _leave leave leave_ just like everyone else does, and he is going to be alone again, he doesn’t want to be alone, he can’t-

“Dallon?” Brendon is standing in the doorway with big, sad eyes with an apologetic look on his face. 

“It’s not your fault. I know I should’ve left before this happened, I shouldn’t be doing this to you, to myself. To us. I’m going to leave Utah in August, I don’t want to disappoint you after a couple months, I don’t want you to think that you can make me stay, or change me, because you can’t. I’m like this. I run. I can’t pretend to be in a happy relationship that last ‘till the end of time, then move on, I can’t just break hearts in every state I happen to show up in. And you-” Tears start filling his eyes, but he lets out a small laugh, but it’s not honest, it’s pained and hurtful. 

“You are amazing. You are the best thing that happened to me in years, and I don’t want to ruin you, I don’t want to hold you back. You can change the world Dallon, I know that, because you’ve changed mine. So please, forgive me for this. Forgive me for even talking to you in that abandoned café, it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life.”

Dallon just stares for a while, taken aback by what the other man just said then he stands up with a sigh  and hugs Brendon, just before he can slip out the door. 

“No, Brendon, this- this is not okay. I need you, just for a little longer. You can’t leave me yet. Look, it’s the third of June, we have a lot of time ‘til the end of August. I’m not asking for forever, or the rest of our lives. I’m asking for a couple weeks. We’ll figure things out and-”

“I don’t know how to figure things out, I just fuck up, I can’t-” 

Dallon pushes his lips against Brendon’s. He doesn’t kiss back, but he relaxes a little and stays quiet.

“Then we won’t. At the end of August you can do whatever you want, you can be wherever you want to be. I promise I’ll drive you to the airport. Hell, I’ll even buy you a plane ticket. Just stay with me a little bit longer.” 

Brendon let’s go of the doorknob. He starts counting with his eyes closed, not daring to face the painter.

“Thirty-first of August. We have eighty-nine days, no more, no less. Are you sure about this?” 

“Obviously.” The artist says, planting a kiss on the shorter man’s forehead. 

“But” He continues “There are conditions” He feels Brendon flinch a little, so he pulls him closer and buries his face in the soft brunette hair. It smells like fresh shampoo and dust. It suits Brendon.

“I want you to talk about yourself. I want to know things like where you grew up, why you started urban exploring and why you're running. I want to know everything about you. In the past couple weeks you were hiding, but I don't want you to do that, because you don't have to. Okay?”

“Okay” Brendon answers with a weak voice, then quickly adds “Thank you”

After a moment of silence he clears his throat and looks up at Dallon with a smirk.

“I don't want to be rude, but you still have cum and paint on your hand. I would be glad if you let go of my shirt.”

“I don’t think it can get a worse, honestly. You should take a shower and get a clean shirt. And I’m pretty sure you drank too much to drive.”

“Mhm, and I’m sure you won’t let me walk home either, right?” 

Dallon gently kisses him and let’s out a long breath, before pulling Brendon closer. 

“You know, my apartment is pretty close to the atelier, you can come with me and take a shower and maybe even sleep there. Then we can pick up your car tomorrow after I buy you some coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

They are both clean and Brendon sprawled out on the bed, wearing only his boxers, and he immediately sits up when Dallon stumbles in, holding a small wooden tray with two enormous mugs on it. He sets it on the bedside table, and plops down next to Brendon, who is currently frowning, while picking at his skin. 

“Your shampoos are weird. Your everything is weird. I couldn’t recognize half of the stuff in your bathroom.”

Dallon hands Brendon the mug that says ‘My puns are qualitea’ and shrugs. 

“You better get used to it”

And that is when the explorer nearly chokes on his tea. The artist is staring at him with big eyes, a faint smile is tugging at his lips. 

“Uhm. Can I get some more sugar?”

And Dallon laughs at him, and Brendon can’t help, but smile too, because yes, he really wants to get used to this, even if it won’t last long.

* * *

It’s midnight, and for some reason they are watching Game of Thrones.

The last time Brendon looked away from Dallon someone died, but really, he couldn’t care less.

“I’m bored” He frowns. 

“I can watch this episode later if you have something else in mind.” 

Brendon furrows his eyebrows and thinks.

“Uhm. Maybe you could guess things about me. Like, I don’t know, guess where I used to live.”

He earns a small chuckle from Dallon. 

“B, that would be a long list...”

Brendon playfully punches him, and starts looking for the remote. 

“I meant where I used to live before...You know.”

“Nevada.” Dallon say without thinking as he pulls out the remote from under one of the pillows and turns off the TV.

“It’s just...You mentioned being stuck on a rooftop because of the snow when you were in Colorado, because you were afraid you might slip, and you said that snow is the ‘evilest thing that ever existed” and it’s ‘not as pretty and awesome as you though at first”.  I guessed you’re from the unforgiving, hot desert.”

Brendon stares at him with big, surprised eyes, gaping  like a fish for a second, then he pipes up.

“I don’t want to break it for you, but Nevada is right next to Utah, and this place is pretty hot too. We are both from the ‘unforgiving’ desert. And still, that doesn’t explain how you figured it out so fast ”

“I don’t know, you are just such a Vegas kid. 

There’s something in your eyes every time you see a neon sign that’s a little too bright, you walk past things that bother most people because you consider them normal. You know how to look away, but most of the time you choose not to, you are brutally honest and open about a lot of things that anyone else would be ashamed of. Yet you have a hundred secrets and a thousand unsaid words in your head. You are mystery, and even if someone thinks they know you, they are wrong. You have that Vegas pride and sly smiles and shameless lies.”

Dallon pauses for a second and frowns. 

“Sorry about the rambling.”

Brendon’s throat feels dry. How is he supposed to answer to that?

“I think that you know more than I thought.” He says with a shrug. The movement is careless, but he has his eyes fixed on the other man, who seems to sense his frustration, and pulls him in his lap. 

“So, what do I get for this?” 

“Whatever you want me to do, babe.” Brendon says with a wink. Wait, did he really say  _ babe _ ? His face is burning and he coughs, just to make the silence easier.

“You could sing for me.”

“What.” Is Dallon even serious? There are so many things they could do in a bed, and he wants him to sing? Besides, no one has ever heard his songs, he never showed them to anyone, they could be the worst songs ever written, but the world will never know. And there is no way  he is going to sing something he and Ryan wrote together. No way in hell. 

But okay, Dallon looks at him like, like, he doesn’t even know how, because he haven’t seen anyone looking at him like that before. He really wants to sing to him, or sing to anyone, or everyone, his heart is giving the rhythm and he should just open his mouth and-

“Wait, wait. I have a guitar, do you need it?” Dallon runs out the room, not taking no for an answer, leaving a confused Brendon sitting at the edge of the bed. When he comes back he has an acoustic guitar in his hand and quickly tunes it before giving it to the smaller man.

“You play? And I am the one hiding things…”

“I had a band in high school, I mostly played bass. I didn’t want to throw out anything, so I still have a some instruments lying around.”

“Cool.” Brendon nods, and tries a couple chords before continuing. 

“I play guitar, bass, piano and drums.” 

Dallon tilts his head, his eyes are shining.

“And violin, and cello. And uh, trumpet. I don’t know, I’ve tried a lot of things.”

“Are you kidding? You are some kind of musical genius.”

“My friends used to joke about that too. They said if someone leaves me alone in a room with an instrument I’ve never even heard of before I’ll learn how to play it in an hour. I’m not sure about it, though, I don’t think there’s an instrument I don’t know about.” 

There's a sad smile playing on his lips and something nostalgic fills his head. Bright smiles, an untuned piano, hearty laughter, the smell of cheap coffee, a monotone voice, icy blue, but kind eyes and the annoying sound of someone walking around in flip-flops. 

_ ‘Next week _ ’ He thinks. He finally has time to do so, he certainly wasn’t drunk, but he was a bit tipsy and now that he is sober enough to worry again. ‘ _ next week, next week, next week _ ’ and the changting doesn’t stop until-

“Brendon, are you alright?”

Brendon nods and licks his lips.

The artist looks at him like he just hung the moon. It feels good, it gives him a bit more confidence and helps him focus on the present.

“So, uh, song?” He wiggles his jaw a little to relax the muscles and takes a deep breath. He can do it. But what should he sing? Nothing feels right. 

Except for Ready To Go, but he is not sure if it's appropriate after all that happened, because they are anything but ready, he just agreed to stay, to fall in love, and break both of their hearth at the end of summer. 

But Ready To Go is something catchy and was completely written by him and he is sure Dallon is going to like it, so why not? 

 

He starts singing and stares at the ceiling, because Dallon’s eyes are insanely distracting, they are like the ocean, and he might drown in them if he looks at them for too long. 

He doesn’t know when the tears start falling, but when his voice breaks after the chorus Dallon takes the guitar from him and pulls him to his chest without a word. He falls asleep there, listening to their synchronized breathing, wondering what sick twist of fate got him in this situation.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again it’s still dark outside, and he is tangled in Dallon. He watches his chest rise and fall for a minute, touches his face, his sharp jawline, and the thin pink lips. 

Dallon is not simply good looking. Brendon finds him pretty, but not like a girl, or a doll. Pretty, like something people walk past every day, something that should be adored, but no one notices.

He feels his face burning, and turns around. Normally he wouldn’t be okay with being the little spoon, but Dallon is much taller than him, and that’s the only reason why he accepts it. 

The only reason. There’s nothing else. At all. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

 

He feels the artist crawl closer to him, and he flinches when a cold nose touches the crook of his neck. The feet that wraps around his ankle isn’t much warmer either, and he is damn sure, that Dallon’s long limbs don’t get much blood and that’s the reason why they feel like they are made out of fucking ice.

He hears a soothing humming from behind his back, he doesn’t recognize the song, but it’s relaxing, it makes him forget about the freezing toes, then the magic is gone, when a cold finger brushes against his spine. 

He shivers, and tries to get away, and he only realizes how bad his decision was when he accidentally rolls off the bed and lands face-first on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” He hears a quiet mumbling, but he only let’s out a grunt and climbs back up.

“You should be wearing socks and gloves, dude. You are a fucking iceberg.”

“Well, desert boy, it’s a thousand degrees outside, and you are like my personal hot water bottle. It’s not my fault.”

“Fuck you.” 

“You are a dork, I hope you know that.” He plants a chaste kiss on Brendon’s lips, who immediately snuggles closer. 

“You should’ve told me you can sing. We could sing together.” Dallon can barely make out the last word, because the man in his arms is already jawning. He wants to sleep too, and wake up at morning holding his boyfriend in his arms, then have breakfast with him, and take him out for coffee, then maybe kiss the sugar off his lips. Or he could introduce him to Breezy. He’s certain she would like Brendon. 

He closes his eyes, and is at the edge off nodding off, when a long finger pokes his face.

“So, uh. I can’t sleep before I tell you what happened. I guess that’s what keeping me up.” He can’t see anything, but he knows that Brendon is nervous again. He finds his fingers under the covers, and squeezes his hand a little. 

“So uh. My friends… Well, they are not my friends anymore. So. They are coming to Utah next week, or maybe they are coming a bit sooner. They are urban explorers too, but I don’t want to run into them. Like, at all. But one of them asked me to join them, but he doesn’t know it’s me, he found my blog because I’ve been stalking them, but they think I’m just some random guy, and. I don’t know, I declined, I said I can’t go, and they keep asking me why, and I can’t even look at their messages without feeling like an asshole. That’s the main reason why I came to the atelier yesterday, because you make me feel better.”

“Bren-”

“It’s just… They were amazing friends, I just don’t deserve them. And don’t want to waltz into their life after three years and ruin everything again, and now they are going to be so close. I know I’m overreacting, but I didn’t ran away for nothing.” 

He sits up and lets out a long pained sigh. 

“Will you ever tell me the whole story?”

“Yes but...Not now.” 

Dallon nods, even though he knows Brendon can’t see him in the dark room. 

“Just tell them you promised your boyfriend to be with him. Then-” He hugs Brendon from behind and pulls him down onto the bed. “Then make it true. If I really makes you feel better, then stay with me.” 

When he finishes the sentence the explorer is already snoring, and he closes his eyes again, and doesn’t wake up before morning.

* * *

 

The coffee shop is busy, a lot of people come in, then leave in haste, it’s just a usual, boring, morning in the city. 

Brendon is used to these, and he would be rolling his eyes at the monotonous footsteps, empty faces and useless small talk, if Dallon wouldn’t be standing by his side. He really needs his morning coffee.

The artist in contrary is buzzing with energy, unaffected by the lack of sleep, and he is trying to find someone behind the counter. 

A boy with short curly hair looks up at him and smiles. 

“Hey Dal. Breezy is not in yet, you have to wait for her.” He tilts his head and looks at Brendon for a second with curiosity, then his eyes find their tangled fingers, and his smile gets wider.

“Is he your boyfriend?” 

They both open their mouths to speak, when someone else talks.

“Ian, please leave them alone” A tall, dark haired woman approaches, she has kind, honest smile on her face, and hugs Dallon without a question. When she notices Brendon she freezes, and her expression turns into something else. It’s nothing bad, it’s surprise mixed with joy, and her eyes are warm and welcoming.

“You must be Brendon! I’ve heard a lot about you.” He throws her arms around him, and Brendon hugs back, because well. Breezy seems nice. And he really,  _ really _ likes hugs. 

Suddenly a man in a suit them speaks up from behind them. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ll be late for work, and you are holding up the only person that’s actually  _ working _ ”

“I’m sorry.” Dallon says, then sighs “The usual for me and a latte for Brendon, please.” 

“Got it.” Ian nods, and turns to Brendon.

“How much sugar would you like?”

“How much can you put in it?” 

Ian laughs and starts working on their order. Breezy already disappeared, probably to change her clothes and start her shift.

When they get their cups they sit as close to the counter as they can, since most of the tables are occupied. 

Breezy shows up in a dandelion yellow apron a couple minutes later and giggles when he notices them, and mouths ‘a kiss him.’ Brendon can’t see her, but he turns around when he Dallon flips her off. 

They sit there for a while, lost in each other’s eyes, communicating with expressions and small gestures, because they have nothing to talk about, but there’s no need for talking. Breezy occasionally asks them something, or offers to make them more coffee when she isn’t serving a customer, but mostly she just watches them, shaking her head and proudly smiling at her friend. 

“You got it bad” she says out of the blue, and both men blush, but they don’t protest. She looks around, sees that morning rush has finally ended, and sits beside them.

“Say Brendon, where do you work? Dallon never mentioned.” 

“I moved here last month, I don’t have a job yet. I used to work at a music store, and before that I was a barista. I did a lot of stuff.” He leans closer to her and adds: “Now I mostly do him.”

Dallon buries his face in his face in his hands and groans “Oh my god” He feels a need to correct Brendon and clarify who does who, but he doesn’t.

He almost misses when the tall, lean man walks in. He is wearing a simple t-shirt and the tightest pants Dallon has ever seen. He orders and his voice is much deeper than what someone would expect from someone with such a boyish face. But there is nothing special about him, he is just a stranger. Dallon turns his attention back to Breezy, who is asking Brendon about his opinion on DC and Marvel. 

“Why not both?” And cheerful laughter fills the room. Someone kicks into a table, and when Dallon looks up again, he sees that the stranger is trying to balance a tray with three plastic cups in his hand and is shamelessly staring at Brendon. Without blinking. 

His face is empty, his expression unreadable. He clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away. 

Dallon is not the person who calls out strangers, but the guy is looking at his boyfriend, and not in a flirty, but in a terrifying way, and staring back at him doesn’t seem to work. So instead he leans in and cuts Brendon off by kissing him. He even saves him from Breezy. The stranger’s face flinches, and he storms out the door. 

‘ _ Mission accomplished _ ’ he thinks, before kissing Brendon again.

* * *

 

Ryan never thought to see Brendon _Fucking_ Urie ever again.

It’s been more than three years since Brendon just vanished without a trace, and running into him in café in Salt Lake City takes Ryan by surprise.

At first it’s just the laughter, but Ryan is used to it, they used to hear and see Brendon everywhere, though he wasn’t expecting to imagine such things after all this time. 

But when he looks up a sees Brendon he can’t do anything. He just stares, hoping that it’s someone else, not his long lost friend, but he looks like him, talks like him, and even the laughter is the same.

There is no doubt, he is looking right at Brendon Urie.

He looks different, he cut his hair and he looks more muscular, and he definitely has more tattoos and scars.  

Ryan doesn’t want to talk to him, because if Brendon is fine and if he just simply doesn’t want anything to do with them, then he doesn’t want anything to do with him. He can go fuck himself, or jump off a bridge, or get eaten by bears. He doesn’t care. 

The man from across Brendon notices him, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Then he leans in and kisses Brendon. Brendon kisses back. _Fucking hell._

Ryan thinks he is going to kill someone, right where he is standing, his going to dump Spencer’s fucking black coffee on the guys head and strangle Brendon, because he is pretty sure that asshole ran away with a guy to live with him in Utah or something, they clearly act like a couple, and he is going to punch Brendon and explain him that falling in love doesn’t mean that he should leave behind his friends. 

He doesn’t know what actually happened, he just sees something and assumes, and really, that’s what they’ve been doing for years. Assuming. Guessing. And now there is one thing he knows for sure: Brendon is okay and doesn’t give a fuck about them.

He walks out without looking back, and he feels the eyes of the tall man following him. He can go fuck himself too.

His hand are shaking when he hands Jon his caramel latte, and he nearly spills coffee on Spencer. They don’t let him drive, and Spencer asks him what’s wrong. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t want them to feel the same. He doesn’t want his friends to be messed up by Brendon again. 

 

And more importantly: he doesn’t want to be messed up either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is longer because I need to finish a painting for school, and since I started it I'm dying, sometimes I just forget to eat or drink, so I put it aside for a while and wrote this before continuing.  
> I'm very uncertain about this chapter, I would be glad if someone would leave some feedback.  
> Thank you for reading, and sorry if the story suddenly got shit and I scared you away.


	4. Calendar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything must come to an end...

Sixth of June 

 

Brendon cancelled their date again, this time without a reason. That’s what he said when Dallon asked him. He told him he has no reason, then laughed and hung up. Dallon is not sure if he should be worried or upset, but he already knows that Brendon is strange and there is no way helping it, so he just hopes it’s nothing serious, just another one of his stupid ideas, or an unexpected urbex day he didn’t plan properly. Actually Dallon is almost sure Brendon will barge in sooner or later with a couple new bruises, amazing photos and a huge smile.

Breezy texted him to come to the café when he can, and since he is not working on anything and brooding is stupid, so he is happy he can do something.

 

When he gets there Breezy just nods at him and shouts to someone in the back. Dallon has no idea who it is, maybe a new employee. He wouldn’t be surprised, they needed the help.

The coffee takes longer than it usually does and when he gets it it has a perfect latte art heart on it, which is new. He sends his friend and questioning look, but she just shrugs, but her smile says she knows more.

The coffee tastes better, somehow more intense, the milk foam is more creamy and the aftertaste is pleasant -not bitter, but maybe a little bit spicy- and he is sure he just tasted actual heaven.

“Who made this?” He asks, his eyes wide. He gets an answer soon enough, when a messy haired Brendon pokes his head out from the back with an “I did” then quickly disappears again.

That would explain the heart.

The good, no, amazing, glorious coffee, well, that’s a different story, because yes, Brendon mentioned working as a barista, but he managed to fuck up a cup of tea once, and the amount of sugar he puts in his own coffee is ridiculous, and people who drink their coffee that sweet usually don’t care about the aroma, and Dallon can’t do anything, just sit there and sip at his drink without blinking.

What is Brendon doing there anyway?

Breezy notices his confused look “He is a natural” she says matter of factly, looking after Brendon.

“We needed some help here, and he saw me put out the sign when you were here with him two days ago, he started this morning. He is amazing, really.”

And Dallon has no idea why Breezy has to tell him that.

He already knows Brendon is amazing.

* * *

 

 

Eleventh of June 

 

Today is one of the days when Brendon smells like home, and not like a wanderer.

The smell of over-roasted coffee, lazy morning sex, burned toast and orange juice embraces him like a cloud, and it seems like the sun shines a little bit brighter every time he’s around. Or that might be just his smile, but it doesn’t really matter to Dallon.

He is taking a shower, his smile never fading, thinking about that a still sleepy Brendon is going to be outside waiting for him, probably only wearing the oversized, paint covered  t-shirt he gave him, doing nothing but staring into space with a lazy smile. Even the thought is domestic, it’s something sweet, new, and heartwarming, something that makes his chest ache every time he thinks about the end of August.

Suddenly a hand slides down his back, followed by small, gentle kisses and a chuckle and he doesn’t mind at all.

He doesn’t mind Brendon’s long, nimble, eager fingers searching for the perfect place to touch, or his flushed skin when he pushes him against the wall, or when Brendon laughs at him when he slips on the wet floor after they step out of the shower with trembling legs.

It’s almost idyllic and sickly picturesque, like something out of a C category romantic movie, but it’s not a problem for them, they need to live for the moment, and stop thinking about the cheesiness of their situation, or the upcoming goodbyes.

It works out for them for now, and that’s the only thing they really care about beside each other.

* * *

 

 

Fourteenth of June 

 

Brendon is coated in a scent of rusty metal, cigarette smoke, sweat and desperation.

His hand is covered in dark grey and dusty black, and he has an already dry crimson hand print flaring at the bare porcelain skin of his chest. Today they are different, there is more teeth and paint involved, and Dallon doesn't know what caused it, but he doesn't protest.

Later that night, hours past midnight Brendon suddenly sits up, and he jumps when Dallon reaches for him.

“They've uploaded the photos. They were in Thompson Spring. There is a picture of the three of them sitting at the exact same table where we met. It fucks me up, I can’t- I don’t, I’m-” He deadpans, then his voice turns into a silent mess of sorrys and careful sobbing and Dallon just pulls him closer and hopes for.. something.

He isn't  sure what it is, a miracle maybe, if that's what it takes to make Brendon happy. Or maybe something selfish, like different circumstances, new lives, more time. He doesn’t know at first, then he realizes he only needs a smile, a honest, true, shining smile, only addressed to him and no one and nothing else.

 

The morning is uncomfortable and the silence is sharp and cold; the light, warm summer shower caught them by surprise, and Dallon used it as an excuse to make Brendon stay longer, and they are now sitting in the small kitchenette on the counter, staring out the window, listening to the raindrops knocking on the windowpanes.

They weren’t in the mood for breakfast, it’s one of those mornings when neither of them is hungry, because they are already full with complicated thoughts and unsaid words.

Brendon leaves with the rain; he looks back from the door and offers a small smile, a ghost of a promise for more and walks away without saying anything.

Soon after, the knocking on the windows stops, and the rain disappears as soon as it came.

* * *

 

Sixteenth of June 

 

Freerunning, -in Dallon’s opinion- is like some kind of special, extreme suicide, something that involves multiple broken bones and scraped knees, but Brendon’s puppy eyes are pretty damn convincing.

“Please? You just have to watch and take some photos. I’ll teach you how to adjust the settings. Pleeease?”

Brendon knows he is not a teenager anymore, and the face he is making is probably something he would be embarrassed in public, but it totally works on Dallon, so he isn’t the one who is supposed to be ashamed.

“Last time you did it you broke your wrist, you shouldn’t-” And okay, no. Dallon can’t do this, he is not allowed to be this protective just because he is older and “more responsive” Brendon can take care of himself. Totally. So he cuts him of with a kiss, then whispers

“You didn’t worry about my wrist when my hand was around your-”

“Okay, fine, I’m going with you. And before you say anything I’m only doing it because you need someone to gather your body if you die a horrible death. Which I hope you won’t.”

 

Soon they are sitting on the stairs between the second and third floor of an abandoned building, the windows are broken and the barely noticeable breeze is tangling their hair, and the sunlight is burning their skin.

Brendon is wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, he is already sweating.

‘ _Fucking  wrist_ ’ he thinks, ‘ _Should’ve ran more after I broke it, I’m getting tired way too fast._ ’

“Okay, so, uh. Stand there” He says pointing at on of the open doors, waits until Dallon nods then continues. “I’m going to do a flip down the stairs, then jump over that table, and then there’s that window-”

“Are you telling me you are going to jump out?”

“Yes, that’s what is going to happen.”

“But-”

“No, seriously, just look out, there’s another building beside this, it’s  a bit smaller, and it’s not even a big jump. I’ve done more more dangerous stuff before. Chill.”

Dallon expected him to do stupid, reckless things, but this was a little over the top. Brendon had been running around for the past two hours, doing backflips off walls,  jumping over old desks and climbing up rusty ladders. And Dallon felt his heart skip everytime his boyfriend ran off or just grinned at something that didn’t look safe at all, and now Brendon wants to jump out of a window. Awesome.

“Still. You can’t do it.”

He gets an amused huff and scowl as an answer and he catches himself screeching when Brendon flips down the stairs and darts toward the broken window. Time slows for a second and he stands up, watching Brendon disappear. His hands are shaking and he drops the camera he was holding; it falls to the ground with a loud thud, but he just steps over it, and runs toward the window.

Brendon is standing on a rooftop not too far away, looking up at him, rolling his eyes.

“Can you take photos the next time I do it?”

Dallon can basically feel the color returning to his face. Then he notices something and grins, because oh god, Brendon is not as smart as he thinks he is.

“And how are you going to get down from there?”

“Well I-” He looks around and his mouth falls open. “Shit.”

* * *

 

Seventeenth of June 

 

 **‘How my boyfriend broke my Canon’**  says the title of the post. There are a couple photos, the more mentionable ones are:

The picture of the window and another one that shows the distance between the two buildings. The caption under them says ‘this is the reason why he dropped it’

There’s one showing Brendon’s dangling feet, the quality is worse, it was taken with a phone.

‘Couldn’t get down. :(’ written under it.

The comments are the following:

 

 _MadAsAHatter:_ He broke your canon, now you should break his heart.

 

 _SPIN_ : And this is why you are single. Don’t listen to him.

Sorry about your camera, I hope they can fix it. :)

 

 _Jwalks-In-This-City:_ if we ever meet you have to bring him along, and hope that ryan doesn’t murder him.

 

 _Srh O_.: Keep freaking people out! :) P.S. Pick up your phone.

 

 _DanPaw_ : i thought u broke your wrist…?

 

 _Kennethereis_ : Rest in pieces, that looks like a long jump

 

Brendon checks his phone with a frown after answering each comment. Three missed calls from Sarah. He presses the call button and hopes that she doesn’t mind that he calls this late.

Sarah was his last long-term girlfriend, they met in Chicago, but they’ve know each other since Brendon opened his blog. She was also an urban explorer, and as soon as he moved there she insisted that they should go on a trip together. They started dating soon after and everything was fine until Brendon left. Even if he adored Sarah living in a long distance relationship was like hell itself; it simply didn’t work. They broke up, but stayed friends, trying to keep in touch and even meeting up once in a while when Sarah had the time to visit him wherever he currently was.

 

She picks up after the fourth ring, and barely has time to say hi before Brendon blurts out “I don’t want to fuck up this time, I don’t want the same thing to happen again”

She sighs and Brendon can nearly hear her smile over the phone. Sarah’s smile is magical: bright, understanding, patient and always present.

“Brendon” she starts, and her tone is light but worried. “If you don’t want to repeat your errors, then you want. You never told anyone you don’t want to leave when we were together in Chicago, we weren’t enough. I don’t know who he is, but I know that it’s more serious than what we were doing. I mean you sound more worried than normal. I trust your decisions, and whatever you do you are going to do the right thing, okay? Don’t stress just yet, make the best of it, have fun. And tell me you don’t count the days until you move, that would make me really sad.”

Brendon is silent.

“Did I upset you?”

“No, I’m just thinking. Anyway, how was your week?”

Sarah doesn’t answer for a second, then laughs sweetly and starts talking about how horrible her job is, her new haircut, and how she missed talking to him. Brendon tells her about Dallon, and she is amazed and congratulates them more than four times. Some time after midnight she yawns and promises to call soon before she hangs up.

Brendon stares at his phone with a smile for a while, texts Dallon and falls asleep curled up on his bed.

He is going to listen to Sarah, and _make the best of it_ , there is still time to worry.

* * *

 

Twentieth of June 

 

It’s the first time Dallon sees Brendon’s apartment, and if he has to be honest with himself it’s not what he expected.

He thought Brendon is messier than he is, but the flat is clean and everything is in order. Everything. Seriously, the contents of the cupboards can’t be normal.

“Are the Pop Tarts boxes organized by color?”

“Uh, yes. Speaking of color, come here, I need to see if your shirt matches my bowtie.”

Dallon opens the door to the bedroom, only to reveal a half-dressed Brendon, his shirt unbuttoned, hair ruffled, holding at least ten ties in his hand and smirking knowingly.

“These are also organized, you know.”

For the sake of his sanity, Dallon ignores the last comment and looks at the colorful mess in Brendon's hand. He wants to tell him that a simple button-up and one of the weird, shiny  jackets would be enough, but Brendon's efforts to please him are amusing, so he sighs and says: “I like the carmine one.”

“Sorry,can you repeat that? I don't speak art.”

“The red one.”

“That’s not even a bowtie, c’mon. You think you are the only one who can get away with it? I can make anything look good, even suspenders with bowties and ridiculous glasses.You can’t stop me, Weekes.”

Dallon raises his eyebrows and smirks, and okay, maybe he can stop Brendon, because he would totally let him.

“Uh. I’ll get ready in a second, we’ll be late”

“We already are” the artist whispers as he slips out of the room and closes the door behind himself.

When Brendon comes out he is not wearing a tie, but a relatively simple, dark blazer.

It’s unbuttoned and the sleeves are rolled up, so it gives him a somewhat elegant, yet casual look, and _damn_ , it’s much better than a bowtie, and maybe Dallon feels a bit self conscious in his own clothes, then he looks up, and- _oh_.

“So I’ve mentioned the glasses and I thought I would ditch the contacts for tonight.”

The glasses have thick black frames, and they make Brendon’s chocolate brown eyes look even bigger. He looks uncharacteristically sheepish, and his fingers are playing with the button on his blazer. -Not because he is anxious, Dallon knows that. He just has too much energy, he usually doesn’t even notice what his hands are doing.

“I mean I’ve seen your glasses more than once, and let me tell you, they look really good on you. I don’t think mines are embarrassing either, it’s just I’m afraid that I might break them. But I guess we'll be fine, as long as you don't throw food in my face.” He grins and starts tugging Dallon towards the front door

“Now let's go, I'm starving”

 

The restaurant Dallon choose is nothing special. Not too overdone, but still nice enough, a small place with ivory-white, polished floor tiles, indigo tablecloths and dim, blue lighting.

The waiter greets them with a bright smile, and doesn’t even mention that they are more than twenty minutes late, but quickly steers them towards their table.

When they are finally seated the waiter gives them the drink menu, and hurries off. Brendon raises his eyebrows at Dallon, tilting his head to one side.

“Do you think it’s inappropriate to order beer here?”

“It wouldn’t be on the menu if it would be, Brendon.”

“Not like I care.” He leans over and kisses Dallon, earning them sharp looks from the elderly couple sitting close to them.

“I just asked in case you wanted something  fancy, like, I don’t know, champagne or expensive imported, French red wine-”

Dallon laughs at him and Brendon goes stiff and blushes. He tries to keep a straight face, because the waiter is coming back to take their order, and grinning like an idiot is clearly not the best way to impress restaurant employees.

“May I recommend this French merlot-”

And that’s when Brendon loses it, and a barely audible, unintelligible noise escapes his mouth, before he starts giggling. He feels knees press against his, and he hears Dallon order for both of them, smiling at him when he says they want the wine and a Budweiser, then when the waiter hands them their menu and raises an eyebrow at Brendon who is basically choking at this point, he just shrugs. When they are alone he tells the younger man to act more mature, but cracks up as soon as he sees Brendon’s flushed face.

And okay, now he is sure it’s not going to be the most romantic date he’s ever had, but they are not exactly there to impress each other.

They still manage to act disgustingly lovestruck; Brendon nearly drops his fork because he gets lost in Dallon’s eyes, then when they are eating their dessert Dallon leans in and kisses the whipped cream off of the side of his mouth and he turns redder than the strawberries on his plate.

He doesn’t even know which one of them is more smitten, but at this point it didn’t even matter -they were both just blushing, grinning idiots.

 

Brendon falls asleep in the car while watching the dim streetlights drift by, with Dallon’s fingers drawing circles on his thigh.

His face is still; full, pink lips slightly open and  dark brows knitted together, even in his sleep.

He is snoring, and okay, it shouldn’t be cute, but somehow it is.

Dallon stops the car in front of Brendon’s apartment, and looks down at him again. He is thinking about waking him; but first he tries to memorize every feature, the hardly visible stubble growing on his chin, the hair sticking to his forehead, every little scar, -the one on his cheek and the one crossing his left eyebrow; every imperfect spot everything that made him Brendon, everything that is a part of him.

The artist presses a soft peck on his lips, but he doesn’t wake up, then Dallon pokes him in the side, then what doesn’t seem to work, he pinches him, but nothing happens.

“Bren, hey”

Nothing.

Dallon gets out and opens the door on Brendon’s side, then picks him up, and walks up to the obnoxious, red front door. He lets out a frustrated sigh, remembering that he needs to open the door somehow, when long arms wrap around his neck, and big, tired eyes blink up at him.

“Hey.” Comes a week sleepy voice, and he can’t help but smile at the man in his arms.

“Hey.”

“You can put me down, you know” The last part is cut off by a yawn, and Brendon throws his head back, which causes his glasses to fall off, then grins.

“Okay, maybe you shouldn’t.”

“We still need to get in somehow.”

“No shit.” He gets out a key chain from his pocket, and holds it to Dallon's face.

“I doubt I can hold you with one hand.”

The sentence is followed by a grunt and frustrated sigh.

After a bit of arguing they manage to get the door open, and Brendon is standing on his tiptoes, his lips nearly brushing the older man’s lips, about to say goodbye. They talk in hushed voices, it's something private, something just for them.

“Stay.”

It's merely a whisper, but the promising kiss that follows turns it into a command.

Dallon stays, and not because Brendon asked, but because he wants to.

* * *

 

Twenty fifth of June 

 

“This. This is me?”

Brendon is sitting beside Dallon’s bed on the soft white carpet, flipping through his boyfriend’s sketchbook, and finds something that at first glance looks like an anatomy study, but when he takes a closer look at it’s actually something else.

It’s him, face half drawn but still recognizable. He stares at it in awe, thinks that it’s beautiful, before shaking his head and laughing, because that’s _so_ , so narcissistic.

On the next page there’s a quick charcoal sketch of his face with glasses on, and it smells like hairspary, -Dallon probably uses that instead of fixative. He is still careful not to touch it, he remembers accidentally elbowing into an unfinished drawing once.

The sketchbook is filled with sketches of him, some small and some bigger, all of them colorless, but they are all amazing. Brendon feels like he is looking into a pitch black mirror, and somehow it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.

 

Dallon comes home with grocery bags twenty minutes later, and he doesn’t understand why Brendon is staring at him like that, but he isn’t complaining.

 

And maybe, just maybe Brendon steals the sketchbook before he leaves.

* * *

 

Twenty seventh of June

 

They are a still life. Two separate things, part of the same painting, creating art, inspiring just by existing.

Brendon has a guitar in his lap and he sings and Dallon hums along lazily.

 

It’s an unfinished song, and Brendon isn’t done with the lyrics yet, but what’s written is something that means a lot for both of them, yet they sing those words like they are nothing.

 

_Put another ex on the calendar_

_Summer's on its deathbed_

_There is simply nothing worse_

_Than knowing how it ends_

 

July is close.

* * *

 

Thirtieth of June 

 

“Where did you get that?” Dallon raises an eyebrow at him, but Brendon just shrugs, nearly dropping the old, weather-beaten acoustic guitar.

“I have my ways” He says with a grin. He never brings things home from his explorations, it’s one of his rules, actually, but the guitar was so out of place, and looked lonely, so he had to take it.

 

They bring it back to life together. Brendon buys new strings, adjusts the neck a fixes up the frets, and Dallon repaints and polishes the body.

It has a sunset on the back and small floral patterns on the front, it’s art by itself really, but they don’t know that later it’s going to become the part of the atelier, and Brendon is going to play it every time he is around, and how the the instrument is going to be more alive than ever.

 

Dallon jokingly calls it their baby once it’s finished, and Brendon beams at him, before going back to admire their work.

* * *

 

Fourth of July 

 

“I don’t want fireworks.” Whispers Brendon in his ear in the morning when they are still tangled into each other. It’s early and they haven’t slept much the night before, so Dallon just pulls the sheet over Brendon’s head in response and snuggles closer.

 

It comes up a couple hours later when they are both more-or-less awake, and are sitting in the kitchen, eating their breakfast.

“What do you want to do then?”

Brendon sets his fork beside his plate dramatically, and looks up with his best puppy dog eyes.

“Stargazing.” He responds.

 

And that’s how they end up sitting on the trunk of Brendon’s car in the middle of the desert, waiting for the sun to set.

Brendon is nursing a bottle of ice cold, bitter beer in his hands, legs dangling lazily and eyes fixed on the sky above him, with childish curiosity.

Dallon is playing with an empty can of Doctor Pepper beside him, watching Brendon the same way he stares at the sunset.

Suddenly the younger man set his bottle aside, sits closer to him, runs his fingers through Dallon's dark hair and tilts his head up to lock eyes with him.  

They kiss, just for a brief second, then Brendon pulls away, hops off the car and pulls out their guitar from the backseat.

He doesn’t know when it became theirs, but maybe it always belonged to them, or at least since they brought it back to life. It became a symbol of restarting and new beginnings in his head, something that he can share a story with, something that would understand him.

The thought that they’ll have to decide which one of them keeps it terrifies him, maybe he should stop thinking for the rest of the summer, give up on his own rules for a while, for the sake of something that won’t last.

He might be going crazy, because he thinks it’s worth it.

 

He plays, and this time he doesn’t care that his past forbids him to smile while singing this song, but Dallon is also smiling, so he can’t resist.

 

_Go on,_

_Grab your hat and fetch a camera._

_Go on, film the world before it happens_

 

It doesn’t mean that he has moved on. He never did.

He remembers playing the same song with Spencer and Jon and Ryan in Vegas, in an empty parking lot, after they managed to get Ryan out of the house so he can get away from his father, and how they all fell asleep on Spencer’s couch the day after;

He remembers carrying Sarah in Chicago, after she fell off a rusty ladder, then kissing her for the first time in a nearly empty diner after half-past two;

He remembers the last time too, in a snowfall, under a flickering streetlamp in Colorado, when she visited and their relationship became less than love.

 

But there were other things.

Dallon drawing in the empty café, covered in pastel colors, Dallon picking out at least twenty sharpies, just for Brendon’s cast, Dallon kissing him for the first time, pleasantly surprising him, Dallon holding him close, Dallon’s ice cold fingers drawing circles on his chest, Dallon waking him up with a shower of kisses after he stayed for the night, hushed promises, sparkling blue eyes, _Dallon, Dallon, Dallon._

 

And that’s why he is smiling.

He can’t exactly wrap his mind around the fact that he might be in love again, but he thinks he doesn’t need to to; the only thing he needs is Dallon, he can worry about the rest later.

 

The sky turns completely dark halfway through the sixth song, and the stars paint it white, shining bright, not blinded by city lights anymore. Brendon shrugs, and decides that his jacket can take it and lies in the sand, and lays the guitar beside himself. Dallon joins him shortly after, holding his hand tightly and wordlessly.

It feels like the whole Milky Way is theirs, like it was made just for them, just for tonight, and no one can steal it before the morning comes.  

 

He doesn’t know when he dozes off, but he wakes up and empty, still warm, but unfamiliar bed, and there are no blinds or curtains on the windows and the sun is shining brightly, and the light feels blinding when he opens his eyes.

It takes him far longer than it should to register that he’s probably in some sort of motel, and he sits up with a sigh, running his hand through his hair, that still has sand in it. Just what he needed.

 

He finds Dallon shaving in the small bathroom, and when he wraps his hand around his waist, the older man jumps a little and cuts his cheek, because he couldn’t see Brendon’s reflection in the dirty mirror.

Laughter fills the room, but it’s short and get’s cut off by sweet kisses, and murmured “good mornings.”

 

They get kicked out at eleven, and they don’t talk much on the drive home.

Brendon sings along to whatever song plays on the radio at the moment, while Dallon keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his lips forming a thin line. They twitch into a smile for a brief second, and Brendon sees it out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t say anything, just puts his palm on his boyfriend’s knee, waiting for something.

Dallon smiles again exactly twenty minutes later and asks:

“Do you want to move in with me?”

“Sure”

The answer is a loud and more enthusiastic than what he had expected, -not that he has a problem with it.

* * *

 

Seventh of July 

 

Brendon presses the phone against his ear with one hand, while trying to balance three of his favorite mugs in the other.

“I’ll be there in like, an hour. Maybe two.”

He is joking, but Dallon’s voice is actually worried, so he feels a little bit guilty about it. Or would, but it’s kind of funny.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“I’ll manage. It’s not much, half of my stuff is already at yours. Seriously, sometimes I’m concerned that someone is stealing my underwear,  because I always forget that I leave everything there.”

There’s no arguing, just a “hm”, probably to sign that Dallon agrees with him. Why wouldn’t he? It’s true.

“Okay, seriously, I’ll never finish packing if you won’t let me hang up. Bye.”

He pockets his phone, recalls if he had put away his charger or not, then carefully wraps his mugs in newspaper so they won’t break.

 

It’s kind of pathetic and hilarious at the same time, seeing how the last three years of his life fit into two cardboard boxes, a camera,- and a laptop bag, and  a guitar case. (Which isn’t exactly his, by the way, it still has Ryan’s name on it somewhere, and he got the guitar itself from Spencer and Jon.)

He wonders if this is really all he is.

* * *

 

Ninth of July 

 

“We have way too many shoes,”

Dallon says the morning after they packed everything out. He looks at the pile of shoes like they hurt him (or Brendon) and raises his eyebrows at his boyfriend who just shrugs.

“You clearly never met Spencer Smith. He was like, a thousand shoes. Literally. This is nothing compared to his stuff,” Then just like that he stalks off, with an amused look on his face. He turns back from the kitchen door, a lopsided smile playing on his pink lips.

“What?”

Dallon just shakes his head, and gulps, probably audibly, because Brendon raises his eyebrows even higher, but after a moment of silence he turns around again to go and make the morning coffee they both deserve.

 

It’s funny, because Dallon doesn’t really know who Spencer is, expect he kind of does. He knows about Brendon’s friend from Vegas, and after reading the comments on his urbex blog and putting two and two together he knows a couple things. He knows for example that they are called Jon, Ryan and Spencer, because they keep calling each other by name.

The strange thing is, that Brendon never talks about them, like they are some kind of dark, sad secret. Maybe they are.

He sighs and decides that it was an accident, something that came out of Brendon’s mouth early in the morning without thinking.

* * *

 

Twelfth of July 

 

Then it happens again.

 

Brendon is high, which is -as far as Dallon knows- not a rare occurrence.

There’s nothing weird about him, except maybe he is not as twitchy as usual, the smile never disappears from his face, he demands hugs once in a while, and he a couple stupid things, but there’s nothing unusual.

The he says something about ‘Jon’s weed being way better than what he had got here,’ like it’s nothing, just a part of casual conversation.

Dallon blinks at him, confused, then the smaller man leans in and kisses him, and that’s probably the distraction they both need.

* * *

 

Fifteenth of July 

 

Brendon locked himself in the bathroom after Dallon asked him if he is going to stay longer than August. It was probably a bad idea, Brendon looked really down the whole day and he was unusually jumpy, but when they were cuddling on couch it seemed easy to ask a question like that. It was stupid, Dallon knows that, and now he has to pay for it.

 

They’ve been sitting on the two separate sides of the door for more than twenty minutes, and Dallon can still hear sniffing.

He nearly called an ambulance earlier, because he heard that Brendon was hyperventilating and his words didn’t make sense, but he rather tried to talk to Brendon himself, trying to calm him down.

It seemed to work, but when he asks something no one answers. He tries again, but he just knocks, and the lock miraculously opens and Brendon emerges from the room.

“Sorry.” He says and the confidence from his voice is long gone. He looks weak, defeated and when Dallon touches his bare shoulder he flinches. He stumbles into the bedroom, leaving the door open this time, and dozes off after a couple minutes.

 

He wakes up to the smell of fresh mint tea around eight at night, finding Dallon  at the edge of the bed wordlessly, holding a mug towards him when he finally sits up. He takes it without asking anything, or commenting the things that happened earlier.

Brendon sets his half-finished tea on the nightstand, pulls off his shirt and climbs under the covers, his eyes inviting.

“Ryan found my phone number. He knows I’m in Utah, too. Sorry for acting like this the whole day,- I just. I don’t know. I guess I have problems.”

Dallon ruffles his boyfriend’s dark hair with a smile and snuggles closer; He already knows about these problems, but they are not ready to solve them yet, and even if cuddling is not a permanent solution, but it’s enough for now.

* * *

 

Twentieth of July 

 

“Brendon, what are you doing?”

It’s seven in the morning, and Brendon is already in the kitchen, doing something, all alone, which can’t be anything good, since he can’t cook, and everytime he tries the whole house is a disaster.

_It’s too early for this._

“We are going to have a picnic!

 _Definitely too early._ Maybe Dallon is still dreaming. Hopefully. Or if not, he can still sleep back and hope that nothing gets set on fire.

 

When he wakes up the first thing he smells is burnt cookies, and he is not surprised at all.

He is suddenly wide awake, he runs into the kitchen, only to find Brendon bursting into hysterical laughter as soon as he sees his face.

“You are not allowed to bake. Ever.”

 

Thankfully, Brendon brought a honeydew and a watermelon, and managed to reach the top shelf where they keep their Pop-Tarts, and put everything in his huge urbex backpack.

There’s a bottle of Limoncello and something that suspiciously looks like lemonade sitting on the counter, ready to be put in the cooler.

Dallon would’ve tried to talk his boyfriend down if he doesn’t see this, but now that picnic sounds kind of awesome, so just exits the room with an approving smile and dresses up, while Brendon keeps packing.

 

In the car he doesn’t ask where they are going, it’s on of the rules he set up for himself; _Don’t ask Brendon what he is doing, he doesn’t know it either._

They got a Beach Boys CD from somewhere a couple weeks ago, and Brendon knows the lyrics to every single song, and always sings along, tapping his fingers on the wheel, and he’s so into it, he doesn’t even notice when Dallon steals his sunglasses and puts them on.

 

Another ghost town.

Dallon should’ve expected it, it’s so obvious, and so Brendon, but somehow he was still thinking about green fields and forest clearings, something out of a romantic movie, and not a rooftop of an abandoned building.

It’s not that it’s not romantic or clisé enough, Brendon got a red and white table cloth somewhere, but at least there is no mariachi band, champagne and baguettes. (He can deal with Brendon singing Sinatra songs, that’s nothing new.)

Beside that, it’s exactly what he imagined, Brendon, and soft lips, and sweet kisses that taste like lemon and alcohol, and dangling legs above the shell of something that used to be filled with life.

 

“Sometimes I think about if ghost towns like this can feel. If they are happy, that something is happening in them again. I wonder if we are the ones who give life to these places, if we can promise them a new beginning by putting the photos on the net.”

Brendon says while cutting a piece of melon for himself.

“Is this why you started urbex?”

“Something like that.” He stops for a second to take a bite, then sits beside Dallon and wraps their ankles together.

“It was different for all of us; Jon needed inspiration for photography projects, Ryan wanted to get away from his abusive father as often as he could, Spencer was there to protect us from doing anything stupid, but he started enjoying it after a while, and I just...I just like abandoned buildings, I guess.”

Dallon steals a piece from his melon when he looks away. Brendon pretends he didn’t notice.

“They are dangerous, but pretty, warm and cold at the same time, colorful; Dirty blue, and rusty copper, and they seem to last forever. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

He says the last part with a grin, and he leans in, looking deeply into Dallon’s eyes, but he ducks in the last second, leaning over and taking the last blueberry Pop-Tart from the box, that was sitting behind his boyfriend’s back.

* * *

 

Twenty sixth of July 

 

“No, absolutely not.”

“But-”

“Brendon, I don’t  even know how to surf.”

“But you don’t have to. You can just watch, I know how much you loooove that.”

“Where would we even go? Do you have a swimsuit? Or a board? Are you sure that you want to go right now? Is it that urgent?”

“I do have a board. And a wetsuit, too.”

“Wha-”

“I’m going to go alone then.”

And he _fucking pouts_. That’s it. They are going surfing together, no questions asked, and Dallon knows he is going to throw out that Beach Boys CD they have, so this won’t happen again.

* * *

 

Thirtieth of July 

 

Dallon enjoyed the surfing day more than he thought he would, and since then they drove down to an empty, abandoned Californian beach every morning.

They are there again, and Brendon’s standing knee-deep in the water, naked, trying to find his sunglasses.

Dallon is sitting in the sand on the shore in swimming shorts, enjoying the view, and burying said sunglasses even deeper.

“Babe, are you sure you haven’t seen them?”

“Yes, I’m shore.”

Brendon then stops, turns around to comment on the pun, only to catch Dallon, half of his hand covered in sand, sheepishly looking at the thing he had been looking for more than ten minutes.

“Oh, c’mon, you are such an asshole”

There’s a grin, and he can feel the sex joke incoming. Instead of suffering through it, he drags Dallon into the ocean as a punishment for making his sunglasses ‘disappear.’

They swim further in, before Brendon wraps his arms and legs around Dallon, forcing their lips together.

“Have you ever wondered why the ocean is salty?”

 

They’ll never find Dallon’s swim shorts.

* * *

 

Second of August 

 

Brendon starts talking about the “ _last place he wants to see in Utah_ ” when he gets his camera back.

Dallon pretends it doesn’t bother him.

It does.

* * *

 

Seventh of August 

 

“Roadtrip!” Brendon announces at three AM, _and okay, what the actual fuck._

There are a lot of things that are fine at three AM, such as cuddles, Pop-Tarts and sex, but roadtrips are certainly not one of these things. Especially roadtrips with an over ecstatic Brendon.

Brendon, who is currently standing on the bed in boxers and a grey sweater, holding his glasses in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Dallon takes in the sight, because waking up to Brendon in boxers is not exactly a bad thing, but he could live without the blinding light.

“Why?” That’s the only thing that comes out his mouth.

“Because Sarah” Brendon raises a finger, “Is in Lincoln for a day, and I want to surprise her and introduce her my amazing boyfriend.”

“Who’s Sarah?”

“My ex and my only friend. And she really wants to see you. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, I mean, waking you up in the middle of the night is probably a dick move, so-”

“I’m going”

_So. Roadtrip. All the way from Salt Lake City to Lincoln. Amazing._

 

Sarah is all silky, dark, flowing hair, big blue eyes, high cheekbones and knowing smirks, and when Brendon sees her they hug and he spins her around, giggling.

Dallon stares at them for a second, then Brendon comes closer to him, stands on his tiptoes, and plants a kiss on his lips, before turning back to the girl.

“This is Dallon” He says with a honest smile and a flushed face.

“Nice to finally meet you!” She goes for a hug, and Dallon can’t help but think how much Breezy would like her.

They walk around the city for a while, just talking, and that’s when Dallon realizes that maybe Sarah really is amazing, but she looks like she could’ve had something with Brendon; A hundred dogs, a wedding, a small house in the suburbs, kids, even. They could be one of those sickly adorable couples, but they are not.

When Brendon bounces off to stare at a grand piano in the window of a music shop, she turns to him with a sad, but understanding smile.

“We didn’t work, it’s over, we don’t think about each other like that anymore. I still love him to that, but not like that. He is my friend.” He looks at Brendon again, making sure he is out of earshot.

“He didn’t even consider staying just for me. You are something different.”

“Do you think they would let me play it?”

“Yes.” Dallon says at the same time Sarah says “Hopefully.” And Brendon is beaming at them.

When they go in, the shopkeeper just looks at Brendon, notes the long, pianist fingers, and lets him touch any instrument he wants.

He launches himself at the piano without thinking, hitting key after key, desperate to make the melody sound as beautiful as he imagines it.

Dallon sits down beside him after a while and they play together, side by side, shoulders touching.

There’s a kiss too, and when they realize where they are Sarah and the shopkeeper are both clapping, and two teenaged girls are standing outside, looking at them and taking pictures.

Brendon waves at them, and leans in again, this time with a bit more passion than before.

 

Seems like roadtrips are worth it, too.

 

They are on the street again, looking for a place where they can just sit for a while.

There’s nothing really interesting in Lincoln; for Dallon, at least. Brendon and Sarah talk about Urbex opportunities, then they switch topic, and he doesn’t know much about cameras, so he stays silent.

Then he notices a small confectionery, with dark purple tables with pristine, lacey, white tablecloths in front of it, and above those lavender sun umbrellas giving shade. There are sunflowers beside the door, and  a sign that says they are selling ice cream and slushy, and he grabs Brendon’s hand, pulling him towards it.

 

It’s really nice, not doing anything for a whole day, not thinking about the perfect cyan, strong contrasts, face ratios and broken pencils.

The sun is shining and Brendon is busy dripping strawberry slushy on his shirt and talking to Sarah, but it’s definitely one of those days he is never going to forget.

 

Sarah slips him a piece of paper before she hugs him for the last time and winks at him, before wrapping her arms around Brendon.

Dallon doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t bother to look at it.

He wants to, but as soon as they get home Brendon starts unbuttoning his pants and well, he forgets about it.

* * *

 

Eleventh of August 

 

It might’ve come in handy the day before.

It’s a list, and at first he doesn’t realize what it is, they look like a bunch of random words; Walls, bruises, mirrors, public and so on. Then he sees ‘dirty talk’ and the rest of the list suddenly makes sense. He might as well try a couple things.

 

Later that day, when Brendon is brushing his teeth, (with a toothbrush that’s definitely not his) Dallon sneaks up on him, and pulls him into a kiss in front of the mirror, while tugging at his hair.

The toothpaste is a bit weirdly gross, but the sound that leaves Brendon’s mouth is worth the trouble.

 

He should thank Sarah for the list.

 

Toothpaste. Sticky lips. A hand in his pajama pants.

 

Sarah can wait.

* * *

 

Fourteenth of August 

 

“So.” Brendon tries again, waving the blunt in his hand. “Weed.”

Dallon sighs, and pushes him away again,playfully.

“Nope.”

“I mean I know I’m kind of ruining you, with like, I don’t know. Every time you drink it’s only because you don’t want me get wasted and I made you drink real coffee instead of your gross decaf, and-”

“That’s because you make awesome coffee.”

“Well yeah, and now I have awesome weed.”

The artist doesn’t answer, just goes back to the painting he is working on.

“C’mon, it’ll help you become more creative.” He takes a drag then he leans in for a kiss, and Dallon turns his face, out of reflex, not counting on the obvious; Right before their lips meet, Brendon exhales the smoke into his mouth. His lips are soft and taste weird, but that might be just the smoke. It’s pleasant, but feels so, so, wrong, just like everything they do.

 

“Yes, you are ruining me.”

* * *

 

Seventeenth of August 

 

“I love you.” Dallon says one night when they are lying in bed and Brendon’s bare back is pressed against his chest.

“I love you” he says a bit louder, wrapping his arms protectively around the other man.

“Please don’t go.”

 

Brendon doesn’t answer.

* * *

 

Twenty first of August 

 

Brendon is not awake yet, and Dallon wanted to make breakfast for them.

He doesn’t want to touch Brendon’s camera, he never touches his stuff, it feels impolite, but it’s just sitting there and he just wants to take a quick look at the photos.

 

To his surprise, most of them are not hollow, rusty buildings.

 

Instead there are dozens of pictures of them, silly things, like the one with Dallon sleeping and making a stupid face, the one where Brendon is completely shadowed by smoke, a neck covered in hickeys and painted figures and burnt pancakes.

Memories, some of the remarkable, and some of them something he barely remembers. 

 

He wonders what this means for them.

* * *

 

Twenty fifth of August 

 

Brendon never put his clothes in the same closet as Dallon.

He probably never will.

* * *

 

Twenty eight of August 

 

Breezy tells him that Brendon makes the best pumpkin lattes ever, and how cool it is, to have Fall flavors, like Starbucks.

Dallon doesn’t think it’s cool, and Brendon shouldn’t be allowed to touch Fall.

Brendon is the summer sun, and the coarse, dry grass and the burning sand; Passionate like a like a storm in the desert, sweet as lemonade, and unforgettable like clear skies above their heads.

 

Just a couple more days.

* * *

 

Thirty first of August 

 

The first thing he realizes in the morning is something he was afraid of.

 

He is alone in the bed again.

 

Brendon’s clothes are gone from his closet and there is only one car on the driveway when he looks out the window.

 

Did he…?

 

No.

It’s not Brendon’s fault.

This was an agreement, they knew this is going to happen, there was nothing, he- There was nothing…

 

It was Dallon who let him go.

 

He jumps to his feet and grabs his car keys from the counter.

THe last place in Utah, Brendon had said, the last place, and he told Dallon exactly where it is.

Hecan fix this, he still has a chance, he can still get Brendon back-

 

The piece of yellow on the front door forces him to stop. He reads it carefully, sighing and closing his eyes before he starts reading it.

 

_Good morning, Pastel boy,_

_In case you’ve missed the the first two notes, here is the third one._

_Remember ‘the last place in Utah I want to visit?’_

_It really is the last place, because I don’t have to visit things anymore._

_I’m finally home._

 

_P.S: I hope you don’t mind that my clothes are in your closet now :)_

 

_I’ll be back soon!_

  _ _-Love you too, Bden__

 

  


Dallon is an idiot, but they wouldn’t be together if either of them would be normal.

Maybe rust and pastel shouldn’t mix, maybe they shouldn’t be a thing, but that never stopped them from trying.

 

August turns into Indian Summer.

 

  
  
  
  
**_The End._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, everything must come to an end.  
> Like this fic. 
> 
> I love this universe, I might write a prologue, but you can certainly expect some one-shots. :)  
> I had fun writing this, and I hope whoever reads it will enjoy it half as much as I did.
> 
> Comments are appreciated, and thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wait, am I supposed to writing that ghost! Brendon fanfic?  
> Whoops, sorry.  
> I'm stuck at chapter three, mostly because the Urbex AU decided to have a really interesting plot. I can't control my own ideas, help me.


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